Personal Stories

People Do Not Care: Hantavirus, COVID, and the Cost of Disposable Lives

Sara Elizabeth

As someone who is chronically ill and has had all of her conditions worsened by COVID-19, can y’all stop pretending like you care about hantavirus? More people are worried about the idea of quarantine and lockdowns than they are about the virus itself and the fatality rate. Sure, I know there’s more nuance to that. Lockdown was traumatizing for people. It’s easier to focus on that aspect. Hantavirus isn’t spread as easily as COVID-19. But… it is spreading. And if 2020 and the following years have taught me anything, it’s this: People do not care.

They don’t care. No one cares.

People will know you are immunocompromised and look you dead in the face—or rather, cough in your face—and tell you they’re sick, but it’s fine, because they’ve had the rona ten times and look at them! Well, look at me. Last time I got infected, I was in bed with a heart rate of 140-150. I genuinely thought I had sepsis and was dying, but I was in such an isolated part of the UP that I had no way to get to a hospital that could help me with all of my complex conditions. I wrote a note on my lizard’s tank with instructions on who to call if I was found dead. I was peeing in empty Powerade bottles because I was too dizzy to walk to the bathroom. That was back in February. It flared my POTS and autoimmune conditions so badly that I don’t even leave my room. I’ve been back to doing cardiac rehab exercises, hoping for the best.

The time before that? I was coughing up blood for over a month.

Before the pandemic?

Sure, I’d have mild dizziness here and there. A seizure or two a year. Joint pain. Normal things with my lupus and epilepsy. After, I developed severe POTS and MCAS. I have frightening vascular episodes. I lost my ability to walk, or even stand for any length of time. I started having neuro flares, slurring my words, experiencing confusion, exhaustion… I have lost my ability to live, and each reinfection makes it worse. The irony is that because the people I’ve been around in Michigan are so much less COVID-conscious than people were in Utah, I have had COVID more times in one year than I did in five years in Utah.

People do not care.

People’s children will be sick. They will know. They will let said children climb all over you. You will express that you want to go buy masks, to do anything you can, even if it won’t work, to try not to get COVID because you, the immunocompromised person, can die. At worst. At best, you’ll go into a flare that can ruin your life for months to years.

But it doesn’t matter. Because you’re overreacting. Because it’s not a big deal. And what’s meant to be will happen either way, right?

If I sound bitter, I am.

While all of this is triggering lockdown PTSD for you, it’s triggering a harsh reality for me: If this does start spreading like COVID, it is a death sentence for me. I already hear my roommates coughing in the morning, and I never know if it’s their allergies, weed, or illness. And I know there won’t be communication—despite me explicitly asking for it—if they’re sick. I don’t think my body could handle another COVID infection. Vaccines only help so much. Until I can live on my own, it’s getting to the point where I’m going to have to start masking inside again, because…

People do not care.

And if the truth is different for you, I am glad you have people in your life who prioritize your safety. It’s rare. Because even the people who love you the most would rather let you get infected and risk you dying than take any responsibility or action to help you avoid contracting something that could disable or kill you. And you have to smile and pretend to be happy while they do it.

Because that’s what friends are for.

It’s funny. I started writing this because I saw people saying no one can quarantine for 45 days in this economy. It’s true. I was viewing this through the lens of someone who is immunocompromised and someone who has been homeless. Someone who is struggling. I agree our government should have relief in place for those who need to quarantine, so they aren’t faced with the risk of homelessness and food insecurity… but my life matters too. The lives of those around you matter. I mean, I know y’all hate disabled people, but hantavirus has a far higher fatality rate, even among healthy people, than COVID did… I was going to write about that. About the value of life. But then I realized no one valued mine when it came to COVID. Because as I said:

People do not care.

Poems & Literature

i exist, i exist, i exist

Sara Elizabeth

The words slip off my tongue once again, and I cringe. I’ve had this conversation before—and no, this isn’t a lapse of memory, a neurological failing created by endless neurons misfiring—this is the script, the loop, and I hate it. No one else seems to notice, or maybe they do, because I pretend not to notice when they do it too. They retell the same stories at least once a week, “remember when…” and guzzle down soda and fries, recline in front of the TV, laughing about a life they no longer live. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism as we fade away. But some of these people exist outside four walls, and they still engage in the repetition. What is it? Compulsive? Because I feel like the more I break free of my designated station, the more life falls apart. The system is glitching when I leave the map, as it tries desperately to generate pixels for me to perceive. 

I do not exist unless perceived. 

I am never perceived. 

I perceive myself. 

But it can’t be enough. 

The script repeats again. Same people, different faces. Same chapter, different font. Sometimes they’ll find something new—a new opinion, and so proud they are of this newly found gem, they burn it out within weeks… but it stays, tired, weary, “isn’t it strange no good music has come out since 2020? No one is creating anything anymore.” You hear others start to say it. They all say it to each other. The same-each-other day after day. I agree for the tenth time this week, even though I don’t agree at all. I think there has been plenty of beautiful, amazing music—authentic music, stripped of the, ironically enough, same repeated lines with a cheesy pop beat. 

Aging breeds hate and trickles down to the youth. 

“Do you remember when…” 

The good times. Sitting inside four walls. 

I feel like I woke up one day and no one was real. 

No one but me. 

That’s always been my biggest fear, and I wonder if it was somehow rooted in this subconscious awareness of the scripts. The loops. 

And I have to wonder if there is someone else out there, not snake oil selling spiritualists who keep going on about yellow houses and red cars in their channeled readings because the algorithm demands it, but who really sees this reality for it is. What it was. What it will be. 

And if we met, would they even recognize me? Or would they notice the compulsive scripts pouring from my mouth the moment I am perceived?

I listen to Johnny Cash with the window open. I made it to the edge of town but turned around. I can’t leave the map. All roads lead to you. Where are you?

I wish, I wish, I wish…

One more hour until I clock in. I think of how the ex-husband and I would play The Sims and how much he loved the Open 4 Business expansion pack, and how I preferred to make my Sims create and fall in love. In a simulated reality with endless possibilities, I created magic and he created routine. 

And we’d argue about the same things on repeat. 

Rinse and repeat.

Rinse. 

Repeat.

Rinse. 

Repeat. 

I fear every time I start to remember, my body collapses, but this time it was loud. The water droplets on the glass shower walls. 

I do not exist unless perceived. 

I am in the water droplets. 

Fear. Cold. Hot. Am I dying? Is this some about-to-experience-DMT-release moment of oneness?

I feel like I woke up one day and no one was real. 

The system is glitching. 

I do not exist unless I am perceived. 

I am in the water droplets. 

I am in the water droplets. 

Remember when, remember when, remember when

Rinse. Repeat. Rinse Repeat. 

Script. Repeat the script. 

Rinse. Repeat. Repeat the script. 

I do not exist unless I am perceived. 

I do not exist. 

I do not exist. 

Remember when. 

I do not exist. 

I am a little girl inside the water droplets. 

Remember when I was a little girl

Rinse. Repeat. 

Repeat the script. 

I do not exist

Glass

Showers

Water

The system is glitching. 

I collapse into bed and cry. 

I don’t want to remember when I stopped existing. When I was a little girl. When I lived inside water droplets in a glass shower. Why am I remembering this at 36?

Every moment begs to be seen—but I live in a world that cannot see, and so isolated am I in my remembering, my trauma, my creation, my pain. So eager am I that I beg like a child to be seen. 

Look at me. 

Nobody can see me. 

Look at me. 

I do not exist unless I am perceived. 

Look at me. 

Look at me. 

Why can’t you see me?

Did I get stuck in the water droplets?

Did I get stuck in a simulation

Where no one else is real but me?

Water droplets. 

I exist. I exist. I exist. 

I wish, I wish, I wish

Personal Stories

There’s No Place Like Home

Sara Elizabeth

I disconnected from the stakeholder meeting after thanking them for their invaluable insights, biting my tongue to keep the truth in my throat: I know a thing or two about needing these kinds of services. It’s been three months, but I still have nightmares about the homeless shelter. I put my headphones back on and let “Ashes and Smoke” by Anna Graves repeat, as I cry. And cry. And wrap myself into a hug, maneuvering the pillows in my bed in such a way that I feel like I am being held. I am a 36-year-old woman simulating safety and love in chaos and isolation. 

I was watching Jane Eyre before the meeting, and I realized that the cruelties of life haven’t changed all that much. The form they possess has shifted. When I was first admitted to a psychiatric unit, I remember the officer telling me it would be okay, it’s not like the 1800s or even the 70s. We’ve swapped lobotomies for zombie-inducing medications—the perfect prey for abusive staff. No longer do the adults shoo children outside and allow them to speak only when spoken to. Instead, they are handed an iPad and forced to perform for social media. People will watch you starve, be rushed away in an ambulance for a health crisis, and eventually collapse so publicly, beating your own body into submission, because that’s what it feels like everyone is doing to you. The only way to have some sense of normalcy in this life is by becoming the very thing you hate: a dissociated, cruel thing chasing the next high. 

I can’t do that, so I cry after meetings. I daydream of a world where I’m not sick—or, since it’s so hard for me to imagine that, I see myself supported… that if I am too dizzy to grab water, I can ask someone for help. I dream of such simple things, and it breaks my heart. I dream of being loved gently. I dream of a life free from abuse and trauma. I dream of being able to heal. I dream of being safe. Sometimes I forget that I live in a world where these are out of reach, so I latch onto that which refuses me, hoping it’ll see my soul. Sometimes they turn around, pour their secrets into my stomach, and walk away. The secrets are rotten, and they make my stomach hurt. Sometimes I throw them up, and they get mad, telling me that’s why no one likes me. 

I can’t even cling to religion, though I’ve had the most profound spiritual experiences in this endless dark night… because I can see how suffering breeds belief, because hope needed a sister to keep going, but I’m too self-aware, and if belief and hope are real, they must be evil, because the suffering exists in the most awful loop. 

And all I want to do is go home. 

But I don’t have a home. 

I had so many dreams centered around the Wizard of Oz in 2024 and early 2025… and now here I am. Crying after a meeting, pillows holding my sanity together, as I whisper once again, I just want to go home. 

Uncategorized

It’s Not Your Fault: Grief, Synchronicities, and Healing

Sara Elizabeth

It’s not your fault. These words were so loud as I was doing a mediumship read for a client today. I don’t usually do mediumship reads on my livestreams, but today I did. I didn’t speak the words even though they were loud because it was such a cliché thing that those readers say. You know, the ones who would lose their shit if they tapped into anything real. Psychologically speaking, people will blame themselves for the deaths of their loved ones. It doesn’t matter if it’s caused by an accident, sudden medical event, cancer—you name it, we as humans will find a way to carry that weight. I was so scared of sounding like a predatory reader, preying upon strangers with the psychology of grief. So, I bit back the words and continued channeling.

This reading was challenging me and all of my rules. I avoid heavy topics—anything that sounds like fear-mongering, but the message was clear. This girl’s grandpa wanted her to know it is okay to walk away from someone in the family who is stealing and causing a lot of harm. She immediately recognized this as her mother, who has been stealing from everyone in the family. She then told me to tell her grandpa she is sorry—because her mother, the one he was warning her about, had told her that his death was her fault. My heart shattered. Of course, he wanted to tell her it’s not your fault. Of course, that was the first message to come through. And I didn’t listen.

Hours later, I was having a conversation with someone where I’m living, and she told me about the death of her parents and how she blames herself for each one. We have very similar experiences, so I told her about my mom, her brain death, and having to say those awful words aloud. I told her how I would have nightmares that I made a mistake and she was actually alive, and that I killed her. I omit offering the details of how I had an awful thought the morning before my mom passed, “she’ll be dead soon”. I had chalked it up to OCD in the moment, even though the message didn’t come with fear, just a gentle knowing. I don’t tell her how I know I caused my mom so much stress in the weeks leading up to her death, that it could’ve easily triggered her brain aneurysm.

Long before my mom died, a boy once told me that the apocalypse prophesied in the Bible could be happening, and I would still find a way to blame myself. I’m really good at that.

Tonight, I held the stories of strangers who, of course, were not in any way to blame for their loved one’s death. I offered reassurance to one. I offered understanding to another. The latter was telling me her father’s birthdate, and I nearly choked. August 10th. The same as my mother’s death date.

Spirit speaks in patterns and synchronicities. Oftentimes, I feel as if I learn more reading for the collective than I do reading myself. I have such a hard time reading myself. I can tap into others lost loved ones, but I can’t hear my mom with that same clarity. It pisses me off, but it is what it is. I can’t hear my mom tell me it’s not my fault. But I can hear others, and I think this is a message I needed. A weight I’ve carried for a long time now. And hey, there’s a New Moon in Scorpio tomorrow… It’s all about death and rebirth… and Spirit knows I am deep in a rebirth hellscape these days.

What a weird life, huh?

Uncategorized

Dark Night of the Soul and the Isolation of Trauma

Sara Elizabeth

Please note that while I will be exploring trauma through the lens of spirituality, I am by no means engaging in toxic positivity or spiritual bypassing. I do not believe that trauma is necessary for growth. This is my experience in a complicated world where my beliefs are constantly shifting. I will forever preach mundane over magic. The experiences shared in this article are not intended for medical advice. Please seek out professional help if you are in crisis. Spiritual practices are beautiful and healing but they are not a substitute for the care we need in the bodies and world we inhabit. 

It’s hard to pin down exactly when the foundations of my life started to crumble. My life has always been a bit chaotic and unstable. It was as if I never quite fit in. Maybe it’s the neurodivergency of it all. But I think the beginning of the end happened on August 10, 2019. The day my mother died. I won’t bore you with the details—or trauma dump, as the cool kids lacking in empathy say—but grief is a beast of its own, and sometimes that beast unlocks our shadows, wreaks havoc on our nervous system, and sends us on the lonely journey spiritualists call the Dark Night of the Soul. 

God and Satan’s Pissing Contest

Though I no longer resonate with Christianity, I do relate deeply to Job from the Bible. This man became the target of a pissing contest between Yaweh and what Christians label as the devil. Basically, the devil was like, “Yo, do you think Job would still love you even if you stripped everything away from him?” And God, prideful and abusive as ever, said Job would never forsake him. Satan said bet, and God abandoned Job. He let his family be murdered. He let this man lose absolutely everything while those all-too-familiar well-meaning people stop by to question our faith. Seriously, it’s pretty fucked up, but of course, it was my favorite book in the Bible growing up. I knew exactly what it was like to lose the things I love and have people belittle my faith. 

“Consider now: Who, being innocent, has ever perished? Where were the upright ever destroyed? As I have observed,b those who plow evil and those who sow trouble reap it.” Job 4:7-8 NIV

“Surely God does not reject one who is blameless or strengthen the hands of evildoers.” – Job 8:20 NIV

When we are walking the path of the Dark Night of the Soul, our foundations crumble. As a tarot reader, we see this energy in The Tower card. The tower collapses. It’s horrific. It’s impossible. We lose what is most precious and foundational to our being… and yet, we continue to exist, and it’s through this existence we experience rebirth and rebuild. 

Maybe I’m not a great builder, but if reading for individuals and collective energy has taught me anything, it’s that these tower moments, these dark nights of the soul, they are endless. They happen time and time again. And we rebuild time and time again. Some have it worse than others. Maybe it’s just the way of life in a cold, cruel world… but even if we remove the spiritual lens, it’s traumatic as fuck. 

I could write an entire novel dissecting this experience through the perception of Gnosticism, Hermeticism, and various belief systems… and yet, it doesn’t stop it. Not entirely. So, what’s a girl to do when she is sitting homeless in a motel, crying to the all-too-fitting song “Indigo”, and wondering why she is being given the Job treatment without any end in sight?

Trauma Dumping or Lore—You Pick!

Weeks before my mom passed, I could feel my deceased father’s presence so intensely that I was convinced he was there for me. I thought I was dying. To be honest, I never expected to outlive my mother. I even told an old friend, Thomas, that if my mom died, that was it. No more fighting to stay alive. But I did. I stayed alive. 

I cried. I healed with roommates and friends and music and movies. I started my dream job with a publisher. I reconnected with Thomas. I came out as bisexual. I left the Mormon church. I started living authentically. I found such deep healing during that awful grieving period. Then COVID happened. I lost my job. I moved back to California and the liminal desert I always hated. I had my first mystery health episode that seemed to be the pandora’s box for endless suffering. I lost all of my friends—a cycle that seems to keep repeating, as if the Universe offers me enough hope and stability so it can have the desired impact when it rips everything away from me once again. 

From the wild-eyed woman outside the Vegas airport who declared she knew what I was and threatened to kill me at 4 A.M. to the ambulance rides where my blood pressure was 300/250 and climbing as the EMTs yelled at me to eating rotten food and starving even when I had money because no one could be bothered to help me get to the store… I do think my suffering is calculated. Divinely designed. In the midst of all this suffering, these looping Dark Nights, I found myself Kundalini activated… and no, I don’t mean the sexy yoga vibes. I mean that soul-crushing awakening sparked by a soul-tie so deep no cord cutting can remove it. 

I have no reason to be here. I have only a few days left in this motel and then… nothing. I’m exhausted. I don’t know how much longer my mind or body can survive. The last few weeks I’ve spent ripping out my hair, hitting myself, and essentially entering spiritual psychosis.

But maybe I do have a reason to be alive. Maybe there is some reason. I think about how a few years before my mother’s death, my friend at the time asked me why I think bad things happen. I told her they just do, and I don’t think there’s any reason for it. I hate the way people use spiritual bypassing to overlook trauma or justify it. Being raped by my ex-husband and experiencing abuse was not part of any higher power’s plan. If it is, they can fuck off. And yes, I will boldly tell a deity, even Yaweh, to fuck off. She couldn’t understand how I could hold space for these awful things without justification and still hold space for prayer. I guess in ways, although I had yet to admit it to myself, I could feel the darkness in Yaweh. In religious structures. In this world.

I will forever hold space for duality without justifying the darkness. If you are navigating this, I want you to know you are not alone. Please, know that there is hope—I say this from deep in the trenches, hopeless most days, but hope is all we have. After the Tower in tarot comes the Star. The Star is hope. It is wish fulfillment. Sometimes, I think this hope may only exist in death. May that change for me one day. 

I intend to dive deeper into this, especially Kundalini activation, and what has helped me navigate these energies and keep myself grounded. If I make it out of this alive… or even if I don’t, even if I only exist a few more days … if giving up is my final act of love for myself … I want to give others the support and love I didn’t receive. Even if it’s just one person who reads this and takes away the truth that these dark nights and activations are not easy, and they come through no fault of our own. 

You deserve peace. You deserve healing. And hey, they say once we navigate this, we will be able to heal ourselves and those around us. 

May we finally shift from dark nights to bright days, 

Sara Elizabeth

exmormon, Religion

Mormons responding to Under the Banner of Heaven with gaslighting (of course)

Sara Elizabeth

Months before its release, the Mormon and ex-Mormon community were abuzz with the upcoming release of Hulu’s adaptation of “Under the Banner of Heaven”. I am in Utah and the Mormon community still surrounds me, so inevitably those discussing this docu-drama were and are all over my social feeds. I expected the usual comments when anything is released that doesn’t paint the Mormon Church in perfect light — people who were worried that it would influence investigators or lead people to think this is an example of what the Church is. I didn’t expect to read what I read on the Deseret News before the series even premiered. The article in question can be found here:  Under the Banner of Heaven on FX is bad for Latter-day Saints. Here’s why – Deseret News 

I wanted to write about this sooner, but between my health problems and other life struggles, it felt impossible to muster up the energy to discuss this topic in the way I wanted. After all, this is the Church that has caused a great deal of trauma in my life. Now, before you chime in saying, “but Sara, it’s the people, not the Church. People are imperfect but Church and its gospel are perfect”, save your breath. Gaslighting is not welcome here, okay? Even if you don’t see it now, even if you believe that phrase as much as you believe the gospel of Christ, even if you’re ignorantly repeating this quote that’s been fed to you you’re entire time in the Church — and for most of us converts, long before our baptism — those words are invalidating and gaslighting victims of abuse in the Church. I can write an entire blog about this — fuck, an entire novel even — but that is for another time. 

Anyway, back to the article: Under the Banner of Heaven on FX is bad for Latter-day Saints. Here’s why – Deseret News  Here’s the thing, that title was catchy and at first I thought it was going to dive into something a bit more groundbreaking, less judgemental. Perhaps how it is impacting those who were involved in this heartbreaking situation. I can’t even imagine working through that trauma and trying to live your life but seeing your life being made into a highly anticipated TV show. I know I felt broken listening to a podcast discussing my friend, Krystie Stuart, and her disappearance. As much as I wanted more and more people to talk about it, it felt strange reading strangers chime in with their opinions. But, I digress. This article did nothing of what I hoped it might. In fact, it went the complete opposite direction. 

So here is my response:

It’s hard not to grow bitter with members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Saints, aka the Mormon church, but it’s not for the reasons you think. 

During my time in the Mormon church, I learned that most of the Mormons I encountered love pointing out fallacies – especially when people would question policies, disagree with doctrine, or even ex-members who would call out the trauma the Church can cause. They are quick to point out generalizations while making their own assumption that ex-Mormons apply their perspective to all Mormons or members of the Church. It is so much like the self-righteous man who thinks he is doing the world a service by commenting on a woman’s story of sexual assault or even just a story-time of a bad but laughable tinder date – “NOT ALL MEN!” Yes, we know, Kevin. But goddamn if it isn’t the majority. We know it’s not all Mormons. It’s not all evangelicals. It’s not all Christians. But I would argue that in the case of high-demand religions such as Mormonism or Jehovah’s Witnesses, it is a significant amount. I can’ tell you how many comments I receive, both online and in my everyday life — shout out to my Uber driver for telling me “the Church is perfect but the people are not” on my way home from the ER after explaining why I didn’t want a patriarchal blessing (he offered) as I am no longer Mormon and then answering why I am no longer Mormon — and I guess I understand. I understand that it’s easier to tuck away anything uncomfortable, to chalk it up as an angry member who wasn’t really “in it” to begin with, someone that the Adversary has led astray. Because calling out language that generalizes or any other “fallacy” makes us feel superior and safe from the threat of questioning the foundations of our religion. If instead, we empathized with the hurt and the pain these institutions and their members are causing, we are forced to leave the comfort of our bubble. 

As you read the article you’ll notice the similar mocking tone that we heard from Elder Ballard, as they cite statistics showing just how safe and economically thriving Utah is, implying that somehow the producer of Under the Banner of Heaven’s depiction of this particular set of Mormons is completely invalid because 1) Black has been outspoken against the Church’s policies against marriage equality 2) This depiction of a specific set of Mormons from a horrible even in the past does not adequately represent the Church and its members today 

Um, sir, this is a true-crime docu-drama. This is not about you or members of the Church today. The mere fact that instead of empathizing with the horrific events that occurred you can only see how this doesn’t represent YOU and YOUR beliefs and YOUR experience in the Church is a reflection on your lack of emotional intelligence, critical thinking, and to be frank — your ability to be Christ-like. Of course, we’re not ready for that conversation now, are we?

And because this article glossed over some very real and disturbing statistics in Utah:

https://ibis.health.utah.gov/ibisph-view/indicator/complete_profile/Rape.html#:~:text=According%20to%20Federal%20Bureau%20of,to%2042.6%20per%20100%2C000%20adults. [According to Federal Bureau of Investigation, the rape rate in Utah has been consistently higher than the U.S. rate. In 2019, the reported rape rate in Utah was significantly higher than the U.S. rate at 56.8 per 100,000 adults, compared to 42.6 per 100,000 adults.]

https://ibis.health.utah.gov/ibisph-view/indicator/complete_profile/SuicDth.html#:~:text=From%202018%20to%202020%2C%20the,to%2017%20and%2018%2D24. [From 2018 to 2020, the age-adjusted suicide rate in Utah was 21.4 per 100,000 persons, with an average of 657 suicides per year. Utah had the 6th highest age-adjusted suicide rate in the U.S. in 2019. In 2020, suicide was the leading cause of death for Utahns ages 10 to 17 and 18-24. It is the second leading cause of death for ages 25 to 44 and the fifth leading cause of death for ages 45-64. Overall, suicide is the eighth leading cause of death for Utahns (age-adjusted rate).]

Mental Health

Were you really #FreeBritney? Or just being trendy?

Sara Elizabeth

You might’ve noticed the harsh comments flooding in on Britney Spears’ Instagram these days. Whether it’s her dancing videos, censored nudes, or seemingly scattered captions – people are taking her behavior as a sign that maybe she does belong in a conservatorship. It’s this exact mindset we were fighting against. I’m not going to break down why there is literally nothing wrong with her content, because that’s an entirely different topic, but I will share some thoughts that perhaps should be considered before leaving a tactless comment. 

We should support @britneyspears and however she needs to heal to reclaim her body and its autonomy. – https://bit.ly/3O6Fj27 #FreeBritney

I get it, guys. A lot of us are still worried about Britney and if she truly is OK. This is a completely valid concern, and I am sure the people close to her are also wondering the same thing— but in a different way. How? Because they know her, and they must know how hard this is for her. Let me preface this by saying, I have no idea who Britney Spears is. I could study every interview, every photo, and every post for years but at the end of the day, I do not know her. What I do know is trauma. Trauma and I are intimately familiar with each other and though my trauma is not at all like hers, there is often a significant similarity in how trauma responses present in its victims. If we do know anything, it’s that Britney suffered a great deal of trauma at the hands of her own family and those she trusted most.

In the early stages of the #FreeBritney movement, most of us were eager to argue that mental illness, even severe mental illness, isn’t automatic grounds to be in a conservatorship. So, what changed? I mean, come on, raise your hand if you have a mental health diagnosis and your breakdowns look far worse than the 2007 media frenzy that Britney Spears had to endure. Keep your hand raised if you also have had extremely questionable social media posts or scary episodes than what Brit’s socials display. *Raises hand* Seriously, if you go stalk my socials, you’ll get a fun little look at the mind of someone who is mentally ill AF. 

Everyone who is up in arms over her (mostly) nude photographs didn’t give a fuck about her being sexualized when she was a minor. We should support however she needs to heal and reclaim her body and its autonomy. As long as she is safe and not a risk to others and herself, it’s none of our business. This is true for the people we actually know — not only the celebrities we haven’t the slightest clue about. 

And while it is ridiculous that everyone is judging her because she’s not who they want her to be post-#FreeBritney movement… Here are some things to keep in mind from your locally mentally ill bitch 😅 This is also important to keep in mind when it comes to friends and family members who are going through trauma and mental health struggles, especially if you’re the type to think in a way that has been described above:

  • Coming off of psych meds is HELL. I am currently experiencing a mild version of this after discontinuing my Lithium and Zoloft. It was worsening my blood pressure issues, but I’m already getting the dreaded brain zaps, feeling spicy depression, and that manic need to chop my hair off, change my name, and move to Sweden. Some medications are far more problematic – like Effexor. That medication being on it and discontinuing it left me thinking no one was real, everyone I knew was angles sent to punish me for being evil. I had a fever, chills, seizures, brain zaps, extreme impulsive behaviors, and the list goes on for months. I was often in bed, shivering and sweating, and unable to hold a conversation with anyone. When I did, my words were so fast and I was jittery. It was BAD.  So, I am sure Britney is figuring out what medications she actually wants/needs to be on, experiencing withdrawals, side effects, etc.
  • Trauma, my dears, it’s not fucking easy. As someone with C-PTSD / Borderline Personality Disorder and a plethora of other issues, I am as I said earlier, intimately familiar with trauma. As a result, there are times when I behave recklessly, this includes but is definitely not limited to: overspending, engaging in unsafe sexual activity, or other self-harming behavior. This is a reflection of my body responding to the trauma I’ve endured. This is not grounds for saying someone belongs in a conservatorship. 
  • Instead of taking the time out of your day to judge Britney Spears, other celebrities, or even your own family and friends — people do not exist for you. Try putting some of that effort into your own shadow work, self-care, and growth. You’ll be amazed how much happier you feel and maybe you’ll see that the people you eagerly criticize have already started this journey and that’s why they don’t care what you think and they keep doing whatever it is they need to heal.
Poetry

in the summer – a poem

Sara Elizabeth

I say I think about you in the summer

As if I don’t think about you all of the time

As if I don’t have memories of you for each season

Like that time when you helped me move in the winter

Crushing the ice like a wannabe rockstar with my old broken guitar

My mom wanted to make you Christmas treats, but I told her not to

I spoke of you so little, but she must’ve known you meant something to me

She always knew those kinds of things…

Or that time in the spring, when you not only taught me how to fight

But you helped me to see my worth again

Like a dying garden, you kept me alive

Or the cool autumn nights when I’d wait for your call

The X-Files ringtone, and that lullaby promise: “everything’s gonna be okay”

I see you most in the summer because you are so much like the sun

You are bright and warm and brilliantly strong

A million lightyears away now and I still carry your sunlight

I wasn’t able to back then

But if I ever had the chance or if I ever do

Like the moon, I could reflect love back to you

I don’t believe in God anymore but when it comes to you…

Thomas, I still pray – I pray that you shine brighter than all of the galaxies and all of their suns combined

And with every hope, and every dream, and every goal you succeed

Without seeming too much of a creep, I cheer you on silently, proud of the man turned out to be

And though I never could actually say it

I love you

I say I think about you in the summer

As if I don’t think about you all of the time

As if I wouldn’t drop everything in a moment’s notice

As if given the chance I wouldn’t choose you

Every single time

As if… As if you don’t already know this

Poems & Literature

Stolen – A poem about my autoimmune diseases

Sara Elizabeth

I have been stolen

Robbed of my dignity, I no longer flinch

When the doctors examine every inch of me

I have been stolen

Not quite the “sick girl” I used to be

It’s getting worse but it’s been so long, no one wants to see

Unless of course, I am their inspiration for the day

I have been stolen

But they applaud me because I keep going

Strong and brave, these are not compliments

I have quite literally no choice

I have been stolen

Of my right to grieve the loss of my health

The loss of my dignity

The loss of my identity

“You make your illness your identity”

But when I smile and pretend that my body is not on fire

Or that it’s no big deal when my skin turns purple

And I forget my own name

I am praised for the person “I am”

Strong and brave

I have been stolen

Robbed of my dignity, I no longer flinch

When people roll their eyes in disbelief

I have been stolen 

My right to exist without my existence 

Being an object for critique

“She shouldn’t let it get to her.” over and over until I learn how to change the narrative to

“She is so strong. I don’t know how she does it.”

As if there is glory in suffering

As if diminishing or praising it will protect you

I have been stolen

By diseases that do not discriminate

I have been stolen

And though I wish this upon no one

I wish for just a moment

You too could be stolen

Poetry, Unsent Letters

Poem: I Am that I Am

Sara Elizabeth

Finding the balance between selfless and self-sacrifice

Your lips on hers and the cold wind caressing mine

The space between your growth; spiritual awakening

And my seemingly endless sleepless nights

It’s the distance of space and time and we always come back – isn’t that right?

I try to remember, the oceans and a dream of lavender and the trailer my dad died in

A lake in between to cross to his new home, so different

A space in between, the balance of you and me 

It’s not that far and it’s always been right there, on the tip of my tongue

In each moment of despair

The way I knew she was gone before the doctor’s declared – her heart was still beating but her soul was no longer there

So close to crossing that ocean but not to die – I hope not to die

Just to understand and to finally feel like I am alive, no longer haunted upstairs

When I cry for you, for him, for God – no longer screaming at my mother to remind her she is gone

Finding the balance between you and me

The cards say yes, give it a year, and let him dream 

Of the space between my growth; spiritual awakening

Until this witching hour ends and a new night begins

It’s how it always happens when the veil is thin, we return to each other time and time again

Am I waking up to the memories of now, before, after – a dream of hope, a dream to come

The atmosphere is between us but if I leave, can I still breathe?

A space between, the balance of you and me

I have to believe because the moment I stop, wait what was I saying? It’s on the tip of my tongue

In this moment of despair

I know this is chosen and if I could just remember then maybe I wouldn’t be here – I’d be back home, a place my soul can no longer go

So close to crossing these ocean galaxies, but not to die – Dear god please don’t let this mean I am going to die

Just to understand to reach out and finally touch your hand – no longer haunted upstairs

When I run to you now, you will always be there – not hidden or just out of reach because I belong

In the space between selfless and self-sacrifice

I choose me. I choose you. And I do this every single time

I come back into the fold for a moment, stepping behind the veil

Of you

Of me

It’s always been you

It’s always been me

My sun, my moon, my stars

I am your galaxy

I am that I am

And I will always continue to be

For you

For me